Considerable Risk
by Sock Fiend
Summary: John Watson is one of the unlucky chosen to compete in the Hunger Games. Determined to win, he makes an alliance with a strange boy from a wealthier district. They fight, protect, love- both knowing that one will eventually be forced to kill the other.


A/N: This has been lying around for a while, a crossover between Sherlock and The Hunger Games. I have more written so if you want to see it, please review! Sherlock isn't in the story yet but trust me, that will not last long.

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><p><em>"My, my, hasn't this year just flown by?"<em>

From downstairs, the televised audience could be heard making enthusiastic murmurs of agreement.

_"That's right, Celestia. Today's the day..."_

John's stomach rumbled audibly against his mattress, preparing itself for a meal that he knew wasn't coming anytime soon. If the Reaping hadn't been today he would have gone to the woods in a heartbeat, slung the crossbow over his shoulder and crawled under the worn-down fence that enclosed District 12. His aim was reliable enough that he could easily be guaranteed a few rabbits or squirrels for his trouble, even a small deer if he was lucky. Though Harry would never admit it and he would never say it, her younger brother's shooting skills had long since surpassed her own—his steady hands firm and never shaking, the tip of his arrow nearly always hitting the target dead center. However, the both of them had to be inhumanly careful. Hunting game in the woods was extremely illegal, punishable by either a whipping or execution, depending on your catch.

Groaning softly, he forced himself to rise from the relative warmth of his bedsheets and dragged his feet down to the lower level of the Watson house, walking cane in hand. His mother was in her normal spot on the sofa, grey eyes glazed over and glued to the government-provided screen in front of her. Harry, his older sister, was at the kitchen table, a knife and a block of wood in her hands. The two of them hardly looked like siblings. Harry had the traditional physical characteristics possessed by the majority of those in the Seam: dark brown hair and hardened grey eyes. John however had inherited sandy blond hair and dark blue eyes from their father, who had worked as a merchant in the trading section, which made the sixteen-year-old stick out like a particularly sore thumb.

Wood shavings littered the table surface and John looked at her expressionlessly.

"You're making a mess."

She looked unblinkingly back, the strokes of her blade becoming harsher and faster. Biting the inside of his cheek, John put the kettle on until it started to scream. He grabbed a chipped mug off the shelf and nearly fumbled it when Harry spoke up suddenly.

"Sleep at all last night?"

"A little," he answered placidly, as he fixed the tea. Milk, no sugar.

"Your usual bullshit," Harry snorted. "Why would today be any different?" John ignored her remark. He knew that she'd especially caustic this morning. It was like this every year. Abandoning her work on the table, Harry got up and shrugged on her coat. She made to leave before halting mid-step in the doorway, turning to look back at him. "It'll be fine." He only nodded and watched as she stepped out, the rackety door clanging behind her.

John hobbled over to the tiny section of their house that they called the living room and placed the steaming mug carefully in his mother's hands. She accepted it without even glancing at him, as was the norm. Traces of the milky liquid were left on her lips after her first sip and she didn't bother to wipe it off. Tasting copper, John realized he was still biting the inside of his mouth.

"See you there, mum."

He didn't bother to wait for an answer.

...

One of his mates from school, Mikel Stamford, was in the road when John came out, so they walked together. Mike politely slowed his gait to match John's halting one, the two of them silent with their hands shoved in their pockets. John noticed that there was a beady sheen of sweat on the other boy's rounded forehead, emphasizing the gauntness on what should have been a pudgy face. Reaching the Reaping, he felt his sister tense next to him. Although she'd just turned twenty and was now two years too old for the Games, she feared for him.

The chilling wind shifted direction, causing the bitter smell of white liquor that always lingered around Harry to fill his nose. He'd learned to stop commenting on it. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, the cold making his leg throb more than usual. The knuckles of the hand grasping his cane were white and stiff and he took a shaky breath, futilely trying to make himself relax. It wasn't easy with the ironically named Peacemakers keeping an alert watch over every aspect of the proceedings. Most of them were sadistic government puppets that enjoyed the power they had over the District.

One Peacemaker, by the name of Cray, had been the worst. Cruel and corrupt, it was a well-known fact in the Seam that Cray would sometimes give bags of grain or other kinds of food in exchange for the company of teenaged girls- the moderately attractive ones, at least. One particularly devastating winter when John had been eleven and Harry fifteen, people were dying left and right. Food was especially scarce. It was Harry… his tough big sister- the one who had taught him how to shoot, the one who teased him mercilessly but still cared for him in the way their mother couldn't. She was standing shivering outside of the man's doorstep with a dozen or so other starving young girls. Without exaggeration, it'd been one of the longest nights of John's life—curled up in ball, on the brink of starvation, retching nothing but air—sick with his fear for her. He was wide-awake when Harry came back early the next morning, dropping the meager bag of grain on their table before going wordlessly into her room. It'd been a solid week before she finally came back out.

That's when the drinking had started.

He remembered having seen her when she was younger, trading playful kisses with some of the other girls, tickling and giggling with them in the meadow, occasionally disappearing with one for an extended period of time. He wondered if what she was had made her sacrifice all the more unbearable. Every time he thought about it, a hard knot tightened in the pit of his gut. She'd done it to put food in his stomach.

The table was onstage, the way it always was, with two clear orbs on its surface. He stared hard at the one on the left. It was filled with tiny slips of paper each with the name of every boy in the District aged twelve to eighteen. On twenty of them, were the words _'John Watson'_.

They always picked the female tribute first. All of District 12 stood in silence as the small blizzard of white paper slips swirled around in their glass ball.

"Sarah Sawyer."

The crowd's attention soon focused on a scrawny, very pale girl about his age, maybe a little younger- watched as she tore herself away from her friends, her parents, and walked to the platform on trembling legs.

For the Capitol and Districts 1, 2, and 4, the Games were the biggest, most highly anticipated televised events of the year. For the rest of Panem however, the Hunger Games was merely the government's way of conveying a clear and rather simple message:

_We starve you. We take your children and kill them for sport. We own you._

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion; the white slips of paper settling in their globe, the woman's slender hand daintily plucking one of them out... a hand tightly squeezing his.

"John Watson."

He wasn't sure if it had been the calling of his name or that Harry was hugging him so fiercely that it hurt that was the reason for his sudden inability to breathe. He knew what she was thinking. She would've taken his place without hesitation- an action only available to those within the age range and the same gender as the person chosen. And Harry was neither.

Numbed and feeling very much as though he were detached from his body, John limped his way towards the platform. He could practically hear what people were thinking. There was no chance for him.

Tried not to look at Harry, instead saw his mother's stony, unresponsive expression. In that moment, he felt some semblance of understanding of her past neglect to Harry and him- it was best not to get too attached. Also in the crowd were his friends from school, looking grim and helpless. None of them had stepped up to take his place, and he didn't blame them in the slightest.

"May the odds be ever in your favor!"

His mother's absence at his departure was expected. Mike, gaze fixed on his shoes, stuck out a sweaty hand which John shook stiffly. Harry wrapped him roughly in her arms again, for what would most likely be the last time. The sudden wetness on his cheek was the only thing that let him know she was crying. He closed his eyes and tried hopelessly to permanently imprint this moment in his mind. Her voice was a low, quick whisper in his ear:

"You _need_ to win. Show them, John."

It was time to leave but she wasn't letting go. She had an unrelenting grip on his right arm, fingers digging into it, and he could only watch as the guards wrenched it from her grasp and dragged her away.

It was already dusk by the time he and Sarah boarded the train. His private compartment was tiny but comfortable. The gloomy, familiar sight of District 12 through the train window was already becoming smaller and less distinguishable with each passing second. He was surprised to feel a large lump forming at the base of his throat and quickly swallowed it. The emotional attachment he felt towards the Seam should have been minimal, what with all of the famine and despair so thick you could cut it with a knife. He'd spent his entire life there and the odds were that he would never see it again. How could even sleep at a time like this? But the crispness of the clean white sheets was far too inviting. His clothes still on, John slipped underneath the covers and was out before his head hit the pillow.

...

John's heart skipped a beat when he didn't wake up in his bedroom. He had forgotten about everything, much less getting off the train. Rubbing the sleep out of his puffy eyes, he stepped out of his dreary coal-and-poverty-smelling clothes and into the bathroom. Instantly, he stopped in his tracks. The mere _sight_ of a Capitol bathroom was enough to give him a severe case of culture shock. To say that it was immaculate would have been an understatement. The faucets were shining and polished, the towels fluffy and embroidered with the Capitol symbol. Resting his cane against the wall, he saw the dozens of different knobs and dials. Experimentally, he turned one at random and swore loudly when a jet steam of scalding hot water blasted from the shower head. His face was burning and he angrily sputtered out expletive after expletive as he blindly grasped for the knob. Breathing heavily, John leaned against one of the walls, his face buried in the crook of his elbow.

_You're having a row with the shower._

The stress and reality of his situation was clearly beginning to get to him. "Fuck me..." he muttered under his breath, getting a hold of himself before having another go. When the complicated process was done and over with, it left his skin pink and lathered with all types of soaps and lotions. After rummaging in the drawers for a pair of pants and socks, he tugged a thick wooly jumper over his head and padded downstairs for breakfast. It was there he was supposed to meet with their trainer for the first time, Haymitch Abernathy, drunk and local joke. He was the person that would be responsible for teaching them how to survive in the most dangerous and hostile of environments.

"How nice of you to finally join us!" said a cartoonish looking man with a strained and effortful smile. "Please sit down." John hastily took the empty seat next to Sarah. She looked familiar to him but he didn't recall ever having talked to her before- one of those faces you grow accustomed to seeing around school. If either of them survived past the beginning of the Games, which was unlikely, then they would soon be pitted against each other.

"I've made a fool of myself, already," she confessed sheepishly to him, while the rest of the table was engrossed in some other conversation. "Accidentally stepped on our trainer's head dressing... it was trailing on the floor, practically _asking _for it." John grinned before furrowing his brow in confusion.

"What happened to Haymitch?"

"They replaced him- said he wasn't in a fit enough state." She cocked her head stealthily to the side before whispering. "Our new one is over there... Tyrus." John looked in the direction she was gesturing to and cringed inwardly. It was the man who had passive-aggressively greeted him before. Tyrus was clearly from the Capitol, judging by the overly extravagant turquoise and magenta robes he was sporting along with the numerous varieties of makeup plastered on his face.

John dunked one of the crescent rolls into his hot chocolate and chewed contentedly, forgetting for a moment the harsh reality that he most likely only had days to live.

"How are you both enjoying your meal?" Tyrus asked, including them in the conversation for the first time. "Surely better than what you're subjected to in District 12, I hope!" He chuckled good-naturedly at them and winked, his fake golden eyelashes fluttering obscenely.

"It's fantastic," he answered sincerely after swallowing. Sarah nodded fervently beside him, her mouth full with spiced sausages. It truly was. The two of them wouldn't have even come close to dreaming about this in the Seam. After a while, John had the foresight to pace himself. Chances were that the sudden influx of rich tasting food would not agree well with his stomach and the last thing he wanted was to throw it all up.

Tyrus clapped his hands impatiently. "Where _is_ the help around here? Anyhow, you two need to meet with your stylists straight away! Can't have you giving interviews looking like a couple of refugees."

John and Sarah hesitated for a moment at their abrupt excusal. "Er, thank you," John said and followed his partner into the hallway.

"We forgot to ask them where it was," Sarah said almost immediately, voicing both of their thoughts.

"It's probably down there," John gave a guess, spotting a few giggling Capitol people in trendy outfits lingering further down the hall.

"Good observation, Mr. Watson," Sarah complimented him, smiling brightly, "You better go back and check though, just in case. I don't need them to think I'm an idiot any more than they do now."

John thoroughly agreed. He wanted the full faith of his trainer in thinking that he was somewhat resourceful enough to survive the games, or at least find a room. "Right. I'll be right back." He left where Sarah was and headed back to the breakfast room. His hand was poised to touch the doorknob when he overheard the conversation coming from inside.

"That twiggy girl looks like a fly could push her over!"

"You saw the other one, didn't you?" their trainer asked eagerly, sounding almost delighted. "He's a cutie but the poor thing won't last a minute with that gimp leg."

It felt like John was punched in the stomach. Raw disgust and hatred was coursing through him.

"Tyrus, how generous of you to take them under your wing," another person gushed. "I really must start doing my own charity."

Fingernails digging into his palms, John stalked angrily away. Bile had risen in his throat and he furiously blinked away the frustrated tears forming in his eyes. The same words repeated themselves over and over again in his head, like a mantra.

_'You _need_ to win. Show them, John. You _need _to win..._

_Show them.'_


End file.
